


Witness

by Bright_Elen



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassian Andor-centric, Character Study, Dissociation, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I mean this is K so it's pretty salty comfort but it works for Cassian, Not sure if panic attack, POV Cassian Andor, Protective manhandling, Robot/Human Relationships, Self-Medication, attempted self-harm, emotional breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bright_Elen/pseuds/Bright_Elen
Summary: Cassian knows a thing or two about hauntings; he has room to learn one more. It's not as ominous as it sounds.





	Witness

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, we rush in like foolish humans who don't appreciate our mortality or the droids who work hard to extend our lifespans.
> 
> Written for [Cassian Appreciation Week](https://bright-elen.tumblr.com/post/186451969869/thefulcrumcaptain-cassian-appreciation-week) on Tumblr for the prompt 'ghosts.'

Cassian Andor is first haunted at age six. His mother tells him that Papá isn’t ever coming home. He finds out from his aunties that the Republic killed him. Cassian’s seen dead animals, he knows what death is, but that doesn’t stop him from seeing his father’s face in crowds, hearing his voice from two rooms over, smelling his shampoo at the oddest moments. 

“Mamá? Do you see him too?”

She’s in pain when she looks at him. “No, mijo. It’s just your imagination. Ghosts aren’t real.” 

Cassian has never felt so alone.

It’s good practice: a fever kills Mamá. He and his sisters are split up among their aunties, but then there’s the factory bombing, and the food shortages, and the blizzards, and— 

By his ninth birthday, ghosts are all he has. Them, and the Rebellion. He pours himself into the cause until there’s not much left of him that his ghosts can recognize. He hates hates hates making more ghosts, but sometimes that’s the only way to win, and he’ll grind his soul into dust before he gives up.

The Alliance, when he joins, doesn’t want to let him do field work until he’s older. He tells Draven about everything he’s already done, everything he’s good at. Draven tells the generals. The generals make an exception.

And for a while, he reaches equilibrium. If he can keep himself busy, he doesn’t feel quite so haunted. He manages it as his voice drops, when hair grows on his face, while his legs ache during growth spurts. It’s only when he’s idle that he remembers; when he’s laid up and someone’s decided that ‘medical leave’ means he can’t even keep current with mission reports. Or when he’s on long-haul flights in deep space to get to places far, far away, and has exhausted each and every possible activity available to him — that’s when he sees faces. Hears voices. The smells are the worst (charred flesh or drunken breath or blood, blood, blood) but the voices are a close second. Screams, accusations, pleading. Not all directed at him — often, his victims don’t know who’s responsible for their deaths, if they have any time to know they’re dying at all. But even if they don’t know, he does.

And he alone does. As much as he hates the idea of someone seeing all the terrible things he’s done, sometimes he desperately wishes for just that, if only he wouldn’t be so isolated. Hauntings are crushingly lonely.

Of course, ghosts don’t rest easy, and if Cassian encounters something that resonates with one of them — a similar face, or voice, or clothing, activities, food — they wake up. Sometimes, it seems like anything can wake them, and they ambush Cassian with triggers he hasn’t learned yet. 

When he’s young, he fights it; walks on eggshells, trying to keep them sleeping, or else numbs himself to the point where he can’t feel anything. But numbness interferes with his work, so he learns to live alongside the dead. 

He’ll be walking in a market, for example, and see a table full of toys; a wooden tooka cat looks much like the one that was in the home of the minister on Vandor-6, right before Cassian shot him, and the Minister’s last moment will flare up behind his eyes. It happens often enough that he’s learned not to ignore the ghosts; a touch to the toy cat acknowledge’s the Minister’s presence, and he lets Cassian work. 

Perhaps worse are the ghosts that don’t have any concrete details associated with them. The bystanders who died in explosions Cassian set, or who were cut down during a firefight, or who Cassian let die when he might have saved them from pirates or Imperials. Distinct ghosts he can placate with attention, or keep asleep by avoiding their triggers. But the nameless, faceless, voiceless ghosts can’t be fought, and they can’t be escaped. Like choking on smoke. 

One day, he’s waiting in a target’s apartment on Coruscant. When she enters, he lets her lock the door and come deeper into the apartment, then grabs her and slams her against the wall. She’s scared from the beginning, but when she realizes he wants to know about her under-the-table dealings with the Empire, all the blood drains from her face. 

Like she’s seen a ghost. 

It doesn’t help that Cassian has moments in which he doesn’t feel quite as real as his surroundings. He certainly doesn’t in that moment.

After her body is left cooling in her bedroom, after he gets the intel back to the ship, after they’ve jumped safely to hyperspace, Cassian digs out his stash of rotgut and systematically inebriates himself.

“I hear people gossiping about what it must be like to have a droid for a best friend,” Cassian tells Kay, voice only slightly slurred as he starts the second bottle, “but they should really be thinking about what it’s like for you, being friends with a ghost.” 

Kay regards him with far more thought than warranted, in Cassian’s opinion. “You’re not a ghost, Cassian.” 

“No?” He takes another swig, then caps the bottle. It might be only a step away from starfighter fuel, but easier to keep putting the cap on then clean up a spill. “I keep to the shadows. I know things I shouldn’t. People who know me too long wind up dead. And you could hardly call this living.”

Kay keeps looking at him, and then he reaches one long arm out to take the alcohol away. Cassian watches in confusion as Kay unscrews the cap, reactions too dulled to do anything but flinch as Kay deliberately pours the liquor over Cassian’s head.

“Shit!” Cassian yelps, gasping and spluttering under the cold shock of it. “What the fuck, Kay?”

“Ghosts don’t get wet,” he says, completely unimpressed by Cassian’s sharpness. In fact, he sounds as close to angry as he ever gets. “Despite your best efforts, you aren’t dead yet, Cassian. I have gone to  _ far  _ too much trouble to keep you alive for you to melodramatically declare you’re a ghost. Honestly.”

The wounds of the day swell up in Cassian's chest and he needs to put them somewhere, make them physical, so he swings a fist at Kay's abdominal area. It's a predictable response, but even from the very first time he tried, the security droid's never let him land a hit. There's a first time for everything, though, and Kay might be angry enough to let it happen now.

He catches Cassian's wrist. Then his other wrist when Cassian tries again. The anguish in Cassian's chest screams, demanding outlet, so he twists to the side, intending a kick.

Half a second after he shifts his weight, he's pinned face down to the floor.

"Have you forgotten,” Kay sighs, “how much you hate being on medical leave?"

Cassian thrashes and screams into the deck. Kay shifts both of Cassian's wrists to one hand so he can use his other arm to pin Cassian's ankles down. 

With no other outlets left, Cassian’s shouts become weeping. His stomach clenches painfully around the wracking sobs, silent but for the movement of air. Tears spill onto the gritty durasteel.

Kay lets go, and Cassian curls into himself, on his side facing the bulkhead. Instinctively he brings his arms up to shield his face from view, even though Kay’s seen it already.

He keeps crying. Kay lays a hand on his back. Cassian says nothing, but gives in to the urge to lean into the touch. It’s another long while before Cassian can get himself under control, but Kay stays there the whole time.

Cassian keeps contact as long as possible, even as he wishes that Kay had a better friend than him. 

“Thank you,” Cassian croaks, once he can breathe normally again. “And, sorry. It’s just...I’m just so tired, Kay.”

Kay snorts. “Who could have predicted that?”

“Point taken.” Cassian’s still drunk, feels hollowed out from crying, hates himself for several reasons, and is covered in alcohol that’s leaving behind a tacky brown residue as it dries. Much of that is his fault, as Kay loves to remind him, and it’s unpleasant and disgusting in several ways. 

All of which prevent him from feeling like an unmoored spirit. 

His mouth curls up at the corner. Ghosts don’t get sticky either, apparently. 

He sits up, turns to find Kay kneeling on the deck. He nods at the droid’s hands. “You must have gotten booze in your joints. I’ll clean you up.”

“You’d better,” Kay grumbles, but Cassian hears relief in his voice. 

As Cassian gets the cleaning oil and rags, he realizes something. 

Kay, seemingly immune to regret (a trait Cassian worries about and envies in equal measure) doesn’t have his own ghosts. Nor does he perceive Cassian’s. But it doesn’t matter; he’s always taken Cassian’s remorse as something real and significant. 

Cassian may be alone with his ghosts, but he’s not alone with his pain. 

Maybe that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Come demand tissues and blankies from [me, bright-elen](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bright-elen) on Tumblr.


End file.
